


A Little Compassion

by The_Uninspired



Category: Gravity Falls, Monster (Manga)
Genre: Chance Meetings, Drifter!Stan, Gen, Injury, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:13:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5006107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Uninspired/pseuds/The_Uninspired
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During his years as a drifter, Stan has a brief encounter with a surprisingly compassionate stranger.</p><p> </p><p>(No knowledge of Monster required.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Compassion

Stan had been planning this con for days, and it’d seemed like a pretty good plan. Break into some of the big mansions during holiday season and take their stuff. He knew his way around those fancy security systems, and a few cleaning ladies wouldn’t be much of a fight if it came to that.

Of course, that was assuming that everything wouldn’t immediately go to hell. Stan felt like an idiot now for ever thinking it’d be that simple. It was _never_ that simple with him. He could go to buy fucking groceries and it’d turn into a knife fight with mobsters and a police chase. Which is basically what had happened this time too. Why mobsters were just hanging around random mansions, he didn’t know, but they’d clearly set off some kind of alarm, because as soon as Stan had slipped through their greasy fingers, he’d come right out onto a street of blaring sirens.

He dashed down the first dark side-street, then another, praying a cruiser wouldn’t see him and follow him down. He slammed himself against the wall of the first side alley before bothering to check it was empty. It was, for just a moment, before a similarly out-of-breath man came pelting in from the other side. Stan considered bolting, but the sirens seemed to be getting further away, so he just stood there, ten feet from this other guy, both of them leaning on the wall and gasping.

“Were you one of the guys who tripped the alarms?” Stan asked once he’d caught his breath, turning to look at the man warily. He looked Japanese, and was maybe ten years older than Stan judging by his face. He looked just as scruffy, with long, greasy hair, bruised eyes, and hands clutching at a shabby coat. A good sign- the gangsters had been rich European types. He turned to face Stan sharply.

“What?” He asked, panic and suspicion cracking in his eyes. The guy was utterly transparent. He had a weird accent too- almost Japanese but with a bit of a bite to it. Stan wanted to laugh. He wondered how a guy this conspicuous had even managed to get away in the first place.

“Well, I know I didn’t trip no alarms. It was either you, or those mobsters, and either way I want no part in it.” Stan waved his finger a few times for good measure and made to push himself to his feet. Halfway up, though, the aching in his side spiked, and he couldn’t help groaning. He peeled back his sweatshirt to find his shirt slick and red. “Aw, _shit_.”

“Are you hurt?” The other man said, coming closer. Stan tried to back away, but another sharp pain hit him, and he slid down the wall. The man tried again, more urgently. “Please, I’m a doctor.”

Stan narrowed his eyes and looked the man up and down again. He certainly didn’t seem like a doctor, even a mob one. Those guys were paid quite well. This guy though… his clothing might once have been nice, but it had clearly been overworn to the point of decay, and his stubbly, exhausted face didn’t exactly inspire trust. Ever since Columbia Stan had been making an effort to _trust_ _no one_ , no matter how trustworthy they seemed, and he wasn’t about to forget his lesson after only eight months back in the states.

“I swear, I’m not with any gang, or with the cops. But if you won’t let me look at it, _please_ go to the hospital. That might not be serious, but without getting a closer look… it could be bad.” The man had knelt down and was giving Stan a wide-eyed, sincere look of genuine worry, while also staying a polite distance away. It was almost disconcerting, and it was certainly disarming. Stan couldn’t remember the last time anyone had expressed worry for his wellbeing, even sarcastically. He was trying very hard not to be touched by the gesture.

“Look,” Stan said finally, telling himself it was only to get the weirdo off his back. “Let’s get out’a here before the cops come back. Then maybe you can take a look at it.”

To his surprise, the man nodded, and reached a hand out to help him up. He didn’t take it, of course, but again he found it difficult to ignore the little warmth in his chest at the gesture.

Stan had begun to suspect that the man might be new to this sort of thing, if he was running around offering medical help to obviously shady criminals, but once they were off he showed himself quite adept at escaping the bad guys. He was quiet, quick, and good at taking his silent cues. Stan couldn’t help but approve of the guy’s cool head under fire.

After a good twenty minutes of slipping through back alleys and dashing across dark streets, Stan was pretty sure they’d lost both the mobsters and the authorities. They’d at least managed to reach a part of town where they didn’t stand out quite so much, and it was only another twenty minutes from where Stan had parked his car. He was trying to figure out how to ditch the new guy when he came to a stop beside him.

“This is where I’m staying.” He said. “I can go get some supplies.”

Stan stared at the guy like an idiot, unable to comprehend what he’d jut said. “What?”

The man tried again. “You should have your wound looked at. I have supplies upstairs if you wait here for me.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Stan said. The man sighed.

“If not me, if not the hospital, you need to fix it up yourself soon, or you could get an infection. You should wash it in warm water and bind it tightly, with something clean preferably. If it starts to hurt more, you _have_ to go to a hospital, even if that means you risk getting caught. You were stabbed in a dangerous place.”

Stan could only shake his head in disbelief, as he realized that this guy was being totally, 100% serious. Who did he think he was, Mother Teresa? It was ridiculous. And yet… his vision was starting to get a bit hazy, and the burning had morphed into a low-grade agony. He could definitely afford to sit down for a few minutes. And what would a few minutes be, anyways? They’d lost the guys a neighborhood ago.

“Alright.” He found himself saying. He leaned against the brick wall of the alley and let himself slide down until he was sitting. “Alright.”

The doctor nodded and dashed off. He was only gone a few minutes before he came into sight again. Stan had been half convinced he wouldn’t. When he appeared it was with a large black bag under his arm and a rat-faced man trailing after him. They spoke briefly before the other man nodded and jogged away.

“Who was he?” Stan grunted, shoving himself up.

The doctor knelt beside him and shook his head “No one. Once I fix you up I’ve got to move on. I’ll meet him later.” Stan’s head had started to spin, so he only nodded.

“Alright, I need you to pull up your shirt for me. Can you do that?”

Again Stan nodded, although he rolled his eyes this time. He winced as the slick cloth slid up his abdomen and tugged at the wound, but he grit his teeth and resolutely didn’t cry out as the man slipped on a glove and poked gently at the bleeding hole in his side. When the doctor pulled away, Stan forced his jaw apart. “So, what is it, doc?”

“Good.” He said, smiling. “I was worried your organs may have been nicked, but it seems like it’s a superficial wound. It’s deep, and it’ll scar, but it should heal fine.”

He then proceeded to do doctory type stuff. Stan tried not to pay too close attention, because he was plenty busy trying not to groan or wince too obviously. He didn’t have much in this shitty life, but he’d always had his pride, dammit, and he wasn’t about to lose it _now_ , after everything he’d been through.

After the doc finished cleaning up the wound, both of them relaxed somewhat. Stan finally opened his eyes again, and a pleasant smile settled on the doc’s face. A bad sign if ever there was one.

“So, if the alarm wasn’t you, what had you running?” The doc asked, as if he were asking about the weather.

“You first. What were you doin’ in those big fancy houses that had so many mobsters around?”

The doc kept working, but his face settled into a thoughtful expression. “I’m… looking for someone.”

“Gee, don’t overload me with the details doc, I don’t think I can take it.” Stan rolled his eyes. Though the answer was more interesting than he cared to admit; the guy certainly didn’t look like some kind of hitman or deliveryman. Maybe he wanted some kind of personal revenge? Stan could get that.

The doc smiled again, slyly. “I would ask if you have seen him, but something tells me you don’t usually come through here.” He was right. Stan had only come for the few nights he needed to prepare for the con. “Your turn.”

Despite what a slick guy he usually was, it almost slipped his mind that this stranger had offered his services first, and so he didn’t really owe him anything. Stan couldn’t help but feel that he did. It was his stupid loyalty. It kept screwing up his whole life, again and again, but he couldn’t even help himself. He was a soft-hearted idiot.

“I just needed some cash.” He said. “Simple as that. A man’s gotta eat.”

The doc frowned and nodded. Stan half-expected some condescending answer about getting a job, but it shouldn’t have surprised him when none came. The guy might be a real doctor, but he was thin and scruffy, and he’d run just as fast as Stan when the sirens had started singing. He didn’t look like the kind of guy that had been able to hold a ‘real job’ in a while.

The doc was finishing up his bandages when he spoke again. “You got anyone you can stay with for a while? This kind of wound should really be treated with bed rest.”

Stan tried not to flinch. He didn’t know many people in the Northwest, certainly not in Oregon, but he did know one. One he’d been trying not to think about for weeks now, as he circled the state aimlessly on cheap fuel and shitty excuses. It was Columbia that’d done it- it’d terrified him in more ways than he’d care to admit, and like a little kid he’d gone running back home. First he’d gone to New Jersey, very briefly, just long enough to see the beaches and for the cops to recognize him, and then he’d crossed the country to come here. He’d barely crossed the state lines before getting nauseas, and he’d felt like vomiting for over a month now, but the idea of leaving made him feel even sicker.

The doc was waiting for an answer still, but Stan couldn’t open his mouth.

“At least try to take it easy,” He said once he’d finished binding him up, reaching out his hand again for Stan to take. This time he did, and the man helped heave him up. The world spun for a moment, then settled down, and Stan could breath normally again. It hurt, but not so much as it had. The doc had given him some sort of pain salve. He stood, orienting himself and testing his new injury as gently as possible, as the doc packed up his things. His bag seemed to hold a mix of medical supplies and folders full of papers and pictures. He’d probably been tracking his guy down for weeks, maybe months. Stan felt a burst of kinship for another hopeless loser who didn’t know enough to know when to quit.

The doc slung his bag over his arm and looked up. His lips were tight, but his wide eyes had never lost their disconcerting warmth. He stepped closer and put a hand on Stan’s shoulder. After having the man’ fingers in his side, his touch on his arm seemed light.

“You probably don’t care what a stranger has to say,” He said, voice apologetic, “But that someone here you wish you could stay with? I don’t know what it is that happened between you two, but whatever it is… clearly they mean a lot to you. If you really regret what happened, I’m sure they’ll give you another chance.”

Stan couldn’t even tell the doc to _fuck off_. He was struck dumb. The doc patted his arm lightly, nodded, and turned away. Soon he was alone in the alleyway, just standing like an idiot, clutching his freshly bandaged wound and staring after the guy.

He wished… _God_ he wished it was that easy. He grabbed his jacket and closed his eyes and had to try very hard not to start puking or crying or something equally pitiful. Here he was, getting himself gutted in Salem, Oregon, going to bed hungry and risking getting caught again and _going to prison again_ , and a random fucking stranger gave more of a shit about his stupid life than his own twin brother. That realization hurt more than any physical knife could, and Stan cursed his own weakness as a few tears began to pool in his eyes. _Fuck it._

“Fuck this place.” He growled. He drug his sleeve across his face and turned to go. He didn’t care where. Florida, maybe. As far as he could get from fucking Gravity Falls, Oregon.

**Author's Note:**

> This crossover makes absolutely no sense. Why would Tenma ever be in Oregon? How does he travel if he's a wanted criminal? Why does he speak fluent English? But as soon as the idea hit me it wouldn't leave. Tenma has a way of touching lost souls and tragic criminals, and Stan can always use a little more love.


End file.
